


Homecoming

by bauble



Series: Sex Bucket List [6]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 07:05:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13565382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: Arthur's homecoming isn't quite what Eames was expecting.Written for Inception Reverse Bang, inspired by Swtalmnd'sadorable art.





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Everything is Arthur & Eames](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8638210) by [swtalmnd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swtalmnd/pseuds/swtalmnd). 



Four months, Eames thinks. Four fucking months.

Not that he didn't enjoy his first few weeks alone. Concern for Arthur's well-being aside, Eames does enjoy the freedom of setting his own schedule. He doesn't have to consider Arthur's numerous social engagements, he can sleep in without someone waking him up at some ungodly hour in the morning to go jogging, and isn't constantly tripping over the loose socks Arthur leaves strewn across the floor.

In short, the independence is delightful—for the first two weeks.

But as more weeks pass, small moments of discontent appear. Thinking of a hilarious joke and realizing Arthur is not available to laugh uproariously in response. Noting some interesting quirk of human psychology and having no one to discuss it with. Waking up at dawn--because Arthur trained Eames' wretched body like Pavlov's dog—and then realizing the bed is still cold, still empty.

Nothing so desperate as melancholy sets in, but something a touch too close to it for comfort. Four months is the longest they've been apart in several years—god, when did all that time pass?—and somewhere along the line, Eames grew accustomed to Arthur's unbearable morning cheerfulness, his grouchiness when hungry, his shameless cuddling. 

It isn't until the second month alone that the grasping ache of loneliness begins to set in. Eames does nothing so undignified as pine. Absurd for a man his age. But he is willing to admit to the occasional Arthur-shaped yearning.

When the third month arrives, Eames settles his tab at the casinos he's been frequenting and makes his way to the gym. Listening to a personal trainer shout at him to move faster isn't nearly as pleasant as listening to the rustle of plastic chips, but needs must.

He takes up moderately healthy eating habits when staring in the mirror after each exercise session yields a distressing amount of softness about his middle. 

Two days before they're to reunite, Eames trims stray nose hairs, plucks errant ear hairs, mows the tangle between his legs. He even trims his armpit hair—which has grown rather straggly—and has his eyebrows waxed before his haircut. A man must look presentable, after all, and Arthur's standards on that front are higher than most.

On the day they're set to meet, Eames steps into the outfit he'd carefully selected (trousers Arthur bought him two years ago paired with the green shirt Arthur once said brought out his eyes). A button pops off the shirt, leaving an unsightly gap directly over his belly (which is not as flat as he'd hoped). This precipitates a frenzied search for a replacement, resulting in a mountain of clothing hurled haphazardly on the bed as he tries everything on again.

Once a suitable shirt is found (blue, one which highlights Eames' pectoral muscles and always pulls Arthur's gaze decidedly away from his eyes), Eames has to sort and re-hang the mess he'd made on the bed.

By the time he's finished, he realizes he's going to be late to their rendezvous, which is not how Eames wants their reunion to begin. He's contemplated how it will proceed rather more times than he'd care to admit, and this is what he envisions:

Eames will be seated on the bench, appearing to all the world a dashing visitor to Las Vegas, enjoying the view of the Bellagio fountains. He is an uncommonly good-looking tourist, perhaps, but otherwise nothing out of the ordinary.

Arthur will stroll up to him, hands in his slightly too tight trousers, with a boyish smile and adoring wonder in his eyes. He'll likely start with something artless and American like, "Hey."

Despite himself, Eames will be charmed, but mask it well.

Eames will reply with something witty, delivery spontaneous and completely unrehearsed. Arthur will be far too paranoid for anything so overt as a kiss in public. But he will look at Eames, and Eames will feel his warm regard like a caress of the cheek.

Eames will leave the area first. Arthur trails after by ten minutes, and they'll meet up again at their flat, a surprisingly decent place in a grubby part of town.

Eames will be making a pot of tea nonchalantly when Arthur bursts in and demands to ravish him immediately. Eames will reply that first he has to finish the tea, because he's not a savage, and Arthur will growl something like, "Fuck the tea."

The sex will be furious and fantastic, of course, Arthur a meticulously groomed vision of gorgeous manhood. Afterwards, Arthur will insist on snuggling and Eames will graciously allow it. Arthur will smile dreamily while Eames regales him with delightful anecdotes from their time apart.

At the end of it all, Arthur will kiss Eames in that indescribably tender way that he has and whisper, "Baby, I missed you."

"But of course you did," Eames will say. And then, "I love you, too."

* * * * *

What actually happens is this: the bench Eames was planning to sit on is occupied by a family of four, including two squalling children. Eames relocates to a different bench, which has a far less impressive view of the fountains and no shade whatsoever, which means his face slowly bakes in the Nevada sun for two hours while his arse grows numb on the cold marble.

People pass the bench in a steady stream. Seven men attempt to cruise him and three women invent thin excuses to talk to him. He declines their advances, but is pleased to know his painstaking grooming is having its intended effect on the general populace.

A man in a baggy beige trench coat over a Hawaiian print shirt sidles closer to Eames, possibly trying to make eye contact behind dollar store sunglasses. The truly regrettable ensemble is topped with a baseball cap; the whole thing reeks of self-loathing closet case. Eames pointedly averts his gaze.

The man comes closer and Eames sighs, adjusts his earbuds and hunches over his mobile. Unfortunately, the man fails entirely to read his signals and plops himself down next to Eames. He's sitting far too close.

"Hey," the man says in a familiar voice.

"Bloody hell, Arthur," Eames says, after being momentarily stunned into speechlessness. After four and a half months, he's finally here. In such grotesque attire.

Arthur adjusts his deeply unflattering sunglasses. "I'm keeping a low profile." 

"It's—certainly not what I was expecting," Eames says, after a moment. He tries think of something witty to say, but no clever repartee seems to be forthcoming. "Er. Welcome back."

"Yeah." Arthur grimaces, seeming decidedly unenthused. "Let's get out of here."

Eames stands. "I'll meet you at the flat. Ten minutes." At Arthur's nod, Eames sets off, relief warring with distinct disappointment. It is, of course, wonderful that he is alive and appears to be mostly intact. Perhaps once they're in private, Arthur will whip off that bloody trench coat and ravish Eames. Yes. Then the reunion that Eames has been waiting four months for will continue apace.

* * * * *

The first thing Arthur does when he enters the flat is not tackle Eames onto the nearest horizontal surface. Nor does he unleash a soliloquy dedicated to Eames' finer qualities and astounding beauty. Instead, he asks if the apartment has been swept for bugs recently, and, upon receiving confirmation that it has, makes a beeline for the fridge. He pulls everything edible out and proceeds to devour it.

In between shoveling food into his gaping maw, Arthur glances around and says, "Did you move the furniture?"

As far as homecomings go, it's not the stuff of Shakespearean romance. Well, one of the farces, maybe. Eames removes himself to the couch and does not pout.

"I thought we'd go out for dinner," Eames remarks as Arthur cracks open a beer (one of the dubious brands Arthur likes most, with which Eames stocked the fridge in advance of his arrival). "I made reservations."

"Not tonight," Arthur says after with a jaw-cracking yawn.

After guzzling food and beer, he disappears into the bathroom without a glance back. Minutes pass, with no sign that he's returning, sans clothing, for Eames' appointed ravishing. 

Eames decides enough is enough when the shower starts running.

He follows Arthur into the loo, noting an open tube of toothpaste on the sink. Pausing to re-cap the tube, Eames says. "Did you use my toothbrush?"

"What?" Arthur shouts, muffled by the sound of water and the glass shower stall.

Eames picks his way over Arthur's clothing on the floor, disrobes (leaving a neatly folded pile of clothing on the closed toilet), and slips into the shower behind him.

"Hey," Arthur says, sounding surprised.

"It's not hygienic." At Arthur's blank expression, Eames elaborates. "You using my toothbrush."

"Oh, right. Sorry," Arthur says. "I just—I really needed to wash the taste of stale airplane food out of my mouth."

"And you couldn't use—" Eames stops. "Where's your luggage?"

Arthur sighs. "They lost it on my connecting flight. Probably in Jakarta at this point."

Without sunglasses, Arthur's dark under-eye circles and sallow complexion are thrown into sharp relief. "And you flew here from Indonesia? I thought the plan was for you to be stateside by last month."

"Lerman botched the paperwork and I got held up in Malaysia."

Eames resists the urge to ask why Arthur would ever rely on someone as incompetent as Lerman. The answer is fairly obvious: necessity. "Have you been on the run the whole time?"

Arthur scrubs a hand over his face and Eames can see now, how exhausted he looks, how thin. "Things went sideways pretty much from the get go and only got worse." 

"How long have you been—" Eames allows his gaze to track down the rest of Arthur's body, noting new injuries, and one enormous dark bruise across his sternum—ugly and red and black. "You didn't," Eames says, horrified. "You faked your death via shooting?"

"Local drug lord, actually." Arthur rolls his shoulders and winces. "Long story. I had to ditch the Kevlar at the airport and buy a new shirt that didn't have a hole in it."

"Is that why you were wearing that awful coat?" 

"Only thing that fit over the over the vest." Arthur sighs. "One day someone will make armor that doesn't make me look like an asshole."

Eames reaches out to inspect the edge of a gash he doesn't recognize. Arthur sucks in a breath; the wound is scabbed over, but appears to be healing, isn't infected. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I'm so tired I can barely remember my own name." He pauses, and Eames notices now that Arthur is favoring his right leg heavily, leaning one shoulder against the wall. "Besides, I thought you would figure it out because you're good at that."

"I'm perceptive, Arthur, not a bloody mind-reader." Eames isn't sure whether he's exasperated more with his own uncharacteristic obliviousness—apparently he'd allowed his expectations to distract him from observing Arthur's condition—or Arthur's flattering overestimation of his abilities. "Does it hurt a great deal, still?"

"Well, it feel like someone took a baseball bat and wailed on my chest for an hour," Arthur says dryly. "So, kinda."

Eames snorts a small laugh. "Only an hour? Lucky. The last time I was shot, it was in the stomach and I couldn't eat for two days."

Arthur manages a laugh that fades into a grimace. "Right."

They lapse into silence, the water continuing to fall heavily around them.

"I should allow you to—" Eames starts at the same time Arthur says, "Will you—"

They both stop, and Eames gestures for Arthur to go on.

"Can you help me do my back?" Arthur asks, holding out a bar of soap. It doesn't sound flirtatious or teasing but almost—tentative. As if he's unsure if Eames would say yes.

"Of course," Eames says, something warming at Arthur's shy smile as he turns.

"You look great, by the way," Arthur says after a moment of silence, while Eames runs the soap down the curve of his thankfully unharmed spine. "I don't know if I said, before."

"Thank you," Eames says, slipping over Arthur's shapely buttocks, down his thighs. "Your hair has grown longer."

"Yeah." Arthur reaches a self-conscious hand up to comb through it and it occurs to Eames for the first time that Arthur might be embarrassed at his somewhat overgrown state. Arthur's beard is coming in patchy, his chest hasn't been waxed, and bruises mar the surface of his entire body.

Eames lifts Arthur's fingers—still slightly swollen, knuckles raw from a recent fistfight—to his lips and murmurs, "Let's go to bed. I could use a nap."

* * * * *

Eames wakes, curled up in Arthur's arms. There's a crick in Eames' neck, his left arm is numb, and there's a damp spot on his forehead that he suspects is due to Arthur's drool.

Eames feels his heart expand in dizzying, sickening happiness.

After spending a few minutes listening to Arthur breathe—darling, handsome, slightly bloodied—Eames carefully untangles himself and slips from the bed. It's a testament to how fatigued Arthur truly is when he doesn't wake despite the disturbance.

Eames orders takeaway for dinner, picks up the clothing in the bathroom (binning the trench coat and Hawaiian shirt), and settles onto the sofa to watch a local Spanish news station. 

"Hey," Arthur says, from the bedroom doorway, some hours later.

"Hey yourself, sleeping beauty," Eames says, noting Arthur's freshly shaven countenance; he's wearing a thin tank top that rides up over rather short shorts when he yawns. "I ordered pizza. There are anchovies on your half in the kitchen."

"Thanks," Arthur says as he drifts over to stand behind the sofa. "Prepping for a job?"

"Yeah. Militarization for some billionaire in Mexico City." Eames glances up at Arthur. "You could accompany me, if you're free. She's covering my expenses and I've booked myself a rather nice hotel."

"Mexico City, huh?" Arthur takes a seat beside Eames, one leg pressing against Eames', nothing more. "Easy to stay anonymous in a place like that. Might be good, since I am technically supposed to be dead—or at least one of my major aliases is."

"Couple of weeks together in the country where we first met. One might call that romantic."

"You mean the country where I picked you up in a bar while we were both pretending to be different people?" Arthur slants a crooked smile at Eames. "You got a funny idea of romance."

"Says the man who said we should meet in front of the Bellagio fountains because they evoked the incredible amounts of come I'd have to look forward to upon your return," Eames says, dryly.

"That wasn't romantic, that was hilarious," Arthur says. "I'm hilarious."

Eames laughs. "God help me, but I do agree."

Arthur grins, and reaches out to run two fingers along Eames' right bicep. "You've bulked up."

Eames glances down, casually, as if he hasn't been sweating at the gym for the past thirty days. "Have I?" 

Arthur shifts closer. "Yep."

"I take it you approve?"

"I think you know the answer to that." Arthur catches Eames' jaw in his palm. "I'd almost forgotten how gorgeous you are."

"Almost?"

"No photos, no videos." Arthur's smile is a little sad. "I couldn't risk someone finding them in my stuff."

Eames drags Arthur in for a rough kiss. "I bloody missed you, you ridiculous man."

Arthur kisses back, eager and insistent, as he slides between Eames' legs. When he takes Eames' cock into his mouth it's warm, wet, wonderful. Eames brushes Arthur's hair back from his eyes and shivers as he comes. 

Eames hums contentedly. "Allow me, darling." He buries himself in the task of sucking Arthur's dick, savoring the taste and smell and feel of it against his tongue. He tries, as best he can, to convey how much he's missed this. Missed Arthur.

Arthur comes with a sigh, gaze sleepy and fond. 

Afterwards, he takes Eames' hand, leans forward to press his forehead to Eames'. "I thought about you every single day," Arthur says, softly. "And not just when I was jerking off."

Eames arches an eyebrow. "Did you fantasize about me watching the telly? Gambling in a casino? Driving my car?"

"Yes, yes, and yes." 

Eames chuckles. "I may have spared the occasional thought for you, as well."

"Oh yeah? Did you think about me blowing shit up? Raising hell?"

Eames laughs. "Walking in slow motion away from an explosion."

Arthur nods approvingly. "Now that's what I'm talking about."

Eames feels his mood turn serious again when he catches sight of the bruise on Arthur's chest. "You didn't have to fly here directly from Indonesia. Over thirty hours when you've just been shot? We could have postponed."

"I know we could have," Arthur says, softly. "But I—I didn't want to. I wanted to get home. To you."

Eames feels his heart swell again, a warmth coursing through his veins that no fantasy could ever conjure. "I would have understood. I would have waited."

Arthur shakes his head. "I didn't want to wait, baby."

Eames presses another kiss to Arthur's lips. "I'm glad."

fin


End file.
